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Shen Wei does not like coffee shops.

For the past few millennia, tea has been the primary beverage of China. He is comfortable with tea. He has grown up alongside tea houses, frequenting their airy premises steeped with the pleasant scents of jasmine and new-picked green leaves soft as antler velvet. He enjoys the ritual of boiling the water, waiting until the bubbles are small and eager; of measuring the tea in shallow bamboo spoons; of steeping it until the leaves float, unfurling like newly-washed silk. Tea is a charming art: serene, silent.

Coffee shops are never that. There is the smell – pungent, astringent. The sound – loud pop music played overhead, the roar of the grinder and the snarl of the foamer. The crowds – young people in jeans and ill-fitting clothes huddled around the register ordering a litany of foreign-sounding drinks. All in all, the one word to describe it is unharmonious. Through windows laden with flags and posters, Shen Wei sees his students working on their dissertations and papers from the depths of too-low armchairs and perched on uncomfortable stools; it makes him shudder.

He is here today because of a student, naturally. There’s nothing else that would compel him to cross the doorstep of Dragon City’s newest, trendiest coffee shop featuring a variety of western drinks whose contents Shen Wei can’t decipher. He has just finished walking his student through the assignment he’s struggling with when his phone goes off, a family emergency. Shen Wei promises to bus their cups as the young man hurries out the door, cramming his laptop into his satchel and almost tripping over the step with all the grace of a newborn calf – a gait vaguely reminiscent of Guo Changcheng.

And so he finds himself sitting at a small crooked table with a half-drunk cup of tea that is acidic and oversteeped, the smell of it more medicinal than pleasurable. He has grown through the centuries with the very keen awareness that there is rarely such a thing as abundance and that the necessities of life – food, drink, shelter – are to be savoured and sanctified. But even he struggles to contemplate finishing the swill that sits before him.

It’s while he’s staring down into the cup of brackish water that a stranger in a fawn-coloured coat slides down into the seat opposite, vacated by his fleeing student. A youngish man, a man about the age of Professor Shen Wei (as opposed to Black-Cloaked Envoy Shen Wei, who is ageless). Straight hair slicked back, a broad generous mouth, a slightly crooked nose. A grin that shows plenty of very white teeth. “Is this seat taken?”

Shen Wei is by nature both reticent and polite, and so he does not point out that it just has been. “Please,” he offers, opening his palm in a permissive gesture.

“Was that your colleague?” asks the man in the fawn coat, setting his elbows on the table. “Junior subordinate, maybe?”

“A student,” says Shen Wei, absently wondering if he would be judged for simply excusing himself and going to dump the tea in the sink.

“Of course. No way could he have been with you. You’ve definitely got that hot prof vibe going. It’s sick. I spotted you the second I came in. You practically reeled me in.”

Shen Wei blinks slowly. “Thank you?”

“That’s cute – you thanking me. I think I like it. I’m Mo Bolin. I’ve never seen you here before, and I’d definitely remember. You’re the kind of guy no one forgets – and that’s lucky, ‘cause so am I. Why don’t you give me your number, handsome, and we can plan our next meet-up?” He pulls out his phone, sleek black and green. Acid and bile, Shen Wei thinks.

“Ah – I’m sorry, but –”

“Nope, no apologies. There’s no way you’re not on the market – not when I’m on offer. If you’re with someone, let me change your mind. I’m a certified game-changer. Let me guess: you’re cool on the exterior but kinky underneath? I can’t wait to explore what you’re into.”

Shen Wei feels a cold, growing desperation. This man is going to force him to do something impolite, right here in front of all these people. He is going to have to walk out, or worse, raise his voice. This is why he hates coffee shops. Nothing good comes of them.

“That’s… generous, but –” he makes to pick up his tea; Mo Bolin reaches out and clasps his hand.

Shen Wei freezes, feeling his blood run cold. Hardly anyone touches him. Not his students, not the other professors. It’s a liberty he doesn’t allow, one he’s become used to not allowing. He’s become more and more closed off over the years, like a doorway slowly covered in creeping ivy, thick poisonous greenery blocking out the light. He hardly remembers the warmth of another’s skin, the joy of intimacy. One day, he knows that door will open. Soon, he thinks. But not today, and not for Mo Bolin.

He resents this man and his foolish, misplaced bravado. Resents him for making him break his own principles to suit his petty wants. Resents him for putting his own interests above Shen Wei’s comfort. He opens his mouth to cut out an icy rejoinder.

And a hand falls on his shoulder. “There you are, baobei. I was starting to think you stood me up, when the whole time I was waiting in the shop down the road. Stupid of me – you’re always telling me to check my texts.”

Shen Wei’s spine snaps up straight at the familiar voice. He looks up, turns his head like a sunflower to the sun, and sees Zhao Yunlan standing there, an easy grin on his face, a lollypop in his mouth.

In his chest, his heart is fluttering like a bird’s. Mo Bolin’s touch turned him to ice. Zhao Yunlan’s turns him to jelly. He feels his lips part, his eyes wide, eager. But no words come to him. Instead, Zhao Yunlan’s gaze turns on Mo Bolin. His smile remains, but his gaze is cold now. “Ah, this is…?”

“Mo-xiansheng. My apologies, I have no more time to chat.” He stands, lifting the cups with him, and lets Zhao Yunlan rest a hand light as dandelion fluff on his hip to steer him over to the bussing station. He’s wearing four layers of clothes today, and Shen Wei still thinks he can feel every line, every wrinkle of Zhao Yunlan’s jean coat where it rests against the small of his back. The heat of Zhao Yunlan’s palm sinks into the bone of his hip and he hopes he can hold it there, keep the memory of it in his marrow long after this day is done.

“Your friend’s watching us,” Zhao Yunlan murmurs in his ear. He’s leaning in close around Shen Wei as he pours the remnants of the tea down the drain. Shen Wei can feel the soft, warm brush of his breath against his neck, over the lobe of his ear. He refrains from shivering. “This okay?”

“Yes. Thank you. I was afraid I would have to do something… extreme.”

Beside him, Zhao Yunlan raises his eyebrows. “Oh? Such as…? Look at him severely? Reprimand him for being a bad influence?”

Shen Wei sighs. Sometimes, he thinks he works too hard at cultivating the persona of the perfect professor. But then, isn’t that exactly what he wants? For Zhao Yunlan to believe him to be nothing more than a harmless academic who can’t even raise his voice to protect himself from a pushy stranger?

“You know, Shen-jiaoshou, given how easy-going you are I’m a little surprised you’re not more often surrounded by unprincipled rogues who want you for nothing more than your good looks. But perhaps you have a proven technique to drive them off? Was I unnecessary?”

Shen Wei turns, Zhao Yunlan’s hand slipping from his waist. His other hand, he sees, is tucked in the back pocket of his jeans. Casual; easy-going. Just a man out on a date with his… what? Boyfriend? Lover? The words brand themselves in Shen Wei’s throat, red and inflamed as he swallows and almost chokes. “Are you requesting a demonstration?” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth crooked upwards. He wonders if Zhao Yunlan can decode his expressions, read what lies beneath the staid mask of his professorship. It would certainly be inconvenient if he could, but Shen Wei finds himself wishing for it all the same.

“No, no, no. I wouldn’t dare. What if Shen-jiaoshou scared me off, and I could never face coming to him for advice again?” Zhao Yunlan is laughing at him, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes lovely, like pearls of barley. They’re speaking in low voices, too quiet to be heard over the blare of the music. “Shall I buy you a coffee? Would that pacify you?”

“To tell you the truth,” begins Shen Wei, and his heart squeezes a little at the way Zhao Yunlan bends in closer, straining to hear his words – his alone. “I don’t much care for coffee.”

Zhao Yunlan throws his head back and laughs. It’s startling, the slap of his amusement, but just as with a physical slap after a moment Shen Wei finds himself warming, toasty in the light of Zhao Yunlan’s good humour. “Shen-jiaoshou ah Shen-jiaoshou. What to do with you. Why did you come to a coffee shop, if you don’t like coffee? Just to be bullied by insignificant lowlifes?”

“I was meeting a student,” he replies.

“Of course. Just doing your duty. Well, why don’t you let me take you somewhere nicer. Hm, baobei?” he grins, and Shen Wei realises that Mo Bolin is still sitting at their table, phone out but eyes on him. Zhao Yunlan is leaning in close; he raises a hand to rest casually on Shen Wei’s shoulder, his lips close enough that Shen Wei can smell the fruity sugar of his candy.

It’s pathetic, the way Shen Wei still feels a flush of warmth. Zhao Yunlan is doing nothing more than being kind – and, in fact, probably revelling in crushing Mo Bolin’s hopes and dreams under a ruthless boot. “Thank you,” he says. Zhao Yunlan spreads his arms, a what else am I for? gesture, then wraps an arm around Shen Wei’s waist and tugs him to the door. Outside into the bright spring sun, and down the stone steps onto the sidewalk.

“Thank you,” says Shen Wei again, more composed this time, and he steps out of the circle of Zhao Yunlan’s arm. Zhao Yunlan looks at him, surprised.

“I meant it, you know. Well. Not the date stuff. But you should let me take you somewhere you might like better. You need a palate cleanser.”

Shen Wei looks at him. It’s… hard. Being in the warmth of his kindness, and knowing he can’t accept it. Knowing he is, in fact, nothing but a shadow to flicker and retreat from that glow. “Says the man who never stops eating candy.”

“Hey, don’t knock it until you try it. Will you?” He’s looking at Shen Wei so earnestly, eyes squinting slightly against the warm light. No one squints in Dixing; there’s no light bright enough to threaten sight. Shen Wei likes the look of it, the way his lashes flicker, the soft line beneath his lower lids like the rim of a temple bell.

“Will I try your candy?”

“Will you let me take you somewhere else?”

Shen Wei takes a breath, helpless, and nods. “If you like,” he says.

***

Somewhere else is down a set of cement stairs into the basement beneath a redbrick building. A bell rings as they enter; strangely from inside comes the rich blanketing sound of a rainstorm. Water pattering on damp leaves, distant thunder. The walls are painted black and the lighting is recessed, producing an ambient glow.

All around, living plants hang from the ceiling in bowls and pots, are mounted to the walls in scoop-mouthed planters, line the baseboards in long narrow troughs. The smell is delicate, of winter jasmine and summer honeysuckle.

There’s a long bar, backed by a gold-framed mirror. No coffee machine is present, but in an open wire-framed shelf that sits in front of the mirror are sets of tea pots and cups. No two are alike but all are small, fine. There is celadon and earthenware, nixing pottery and ru ware. The colours are mostly dark, natural; the tones of dark forests and stone mountains.

Just entering the dim space feels… refreshing. Quiet, contemplative, the impression of being in a bamboo grove full of mist and the distant chuckling laughter of a stream. Shen Wei feels a tension he hadn’t noticed seep out of him; beside him, Zhao Yunlan smiles. “I thought you’d like it.”

“It’s… unique,” says Shen Wei. He might easily have said: marvellous. Attractive. Perfect.

“It’s definitely more your vibe than mine. But even I like to veg out sometimes. I can’t keep as much greenery as I’d like in the apartment; Da Qing gets nibbly sometimes. It’s nice to come somewhere that feels… green.”

Green is a good word. A sense of earth and soil, of plants growing and thick springy moss. Rejuvenating water trickling down to wet parched roots. Shen Wei is drawn to the bar by Zhao Yunlan’s steps in that direction. There’s a small chalkboard propped on a brass stand that reads: Today’s offerings: Jasmine white; pearl jasmine; chrysanthemum puer; aged raw puer; lotus leaf tea; bergamot black tea; lu’an melon seed tea; dragonwell green tea. The top of the counter is glass; through it, Shen Wei can see a variety of cakes and sweets.

Zhao Yunlan steps forward and orders a pot of chrysanthemum puer and a plate of mixed confectionaries. Before Shen Wei can even produce his wallet he’s already paid. The young woman behind the counter, her face cheerful and moon-bright in the dimness, promises to bring it to them.

There are low seats and tables scattered around the edges of the room; Zhao Yunlan leads the way to one with two leather poufs and sits, sprawling with his long legs spread gracelessly. Shen Wei perches, back straight, admiring the contrast of a large-leafed fern’s green fronds and Zhao Yunlan’s dark curling hair. “There was no obligation to treat me,” he says, the eddy of guilt light, but present.

“I’ll tell you something, Shen-jiaoshou. I do very little that I’m obligated to. It’s a constant source of anxiety and moaning from my staff. You would think that, after all these years, they would know me better.”

Shen Wei smiles, just slightly. “Is that intended to impress me?”

“You don’t find the truth impressive?”

“In academia, it’s viewed as an expectation, not an added extra.”

“What standards you must hold yourselves to. Thanks,” he says, this to the young woman who brings their tea. It’s in a small pot that looks as though it were carved from some kind of reddish-grey stone in one piece; the spout and handle are the shape of a dragon’s head and tail. The cups are small, only enough to hold a mouthful at a time. There’s a matte grey plate with a few small cookies that she places on the table, the painted nails of her hand gleaming in the low light.

“Enjoy,” she smiles, and is gone.

“You know, early in our acquaintance I asked if you had a girlfriend. But I see it’s not only pretty young girls who are fighting for your heart. Perhaps I should have asked if you have a boyfriend.”

The words feel… not quite pointed, but more direct than Zhao Yunlan has been with him this afternoon. Everything he’s said up until now has been a dance, a smoke-screen. Half-joke, half-fantasy. Zhao Yunlan is a little like his 10,000 year-old cat’s paws – sometimes they’re soft, playful, and sometimes the claws appear out of nowhere to skewer the unwary. Shen Wei supposes it was only a matter of time before the claws came out.

“If you’re asking if there’s someone particular in my life, the answer is… no. My studies are very engaging; my students fill much of my time.”

“Such a dutiful professor,” murmurs Zhao Yunlan, pouring out two cups. The tea is fragrant, steam swirling upwards in elegant furls; its colour is the reddish-brown of a copper vein. “Your parents must be beside themselves.”

Shen Wei smiles through the warmth rising from the tea as he lifts it to his mouth. He drinks first, conscious of Zhao Yunlan’s eyes on him. The tea is light, not sweet but fresh, the chrysanthemum adding a second note against the rich puer flavour. “Ah – no. That is – my parents are gone.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, putting down the now-empty cup. “It’s not an unusual attitude. My freedom is hard-won; I may as well make the most of it.”

“By filling your empty hours marking papers, and enduring passes in coffee shops?” Zhao Yunlan raises his eyebrows to show that he’s only half-joking.

“By ensuring my students have the opportunity to make the best out of their lives. The coffee shop was… a concession. One I am unlikely to make again,” he admits. Zhao Yunlan laughs, but softly. There are other conversations happening in the room, other groups speaking, but their voices are low and the sound of rainfall washes away the words.

Zhao Yunlan lifts the pot and fills the cups again.

“Zhao-chuzhang has not mentioned his own attachments,” Shen Wei murmurs. Zhao Yunlan’s smile is slower now, creeping and with more self-deprecation than amusement.

“Ah, Shen-jiaoshou. I’m not built for romances. Falling in love, starting a family. Those are things that happen to other people. I’ve made it this far without ever breaking my heart; I think it must be lead-lined. Like a diving bell.”

The words are light, full of jest. Zhao Yunlan is an expert at fending off unwanted inquiries and undesired advances – unlike Shen Wei, who simply endures them with bilious discomfort. “I see,” he says.

Kun Lun was different, he wants to say. Kun Lun was so eager to love, so happy to share his warmth with me. Like a swan who once sees his mate, and never loses sight of him. But perhaps that eager heart has been forgotten, been put aside with fur mantels and beaded leather ties into an old cedar chest and forgotten.

Shen Wei has no way of knowing when it will wake.

If it will wake.

“Is that a hint of criticism I detect?” asks Zhao Yunlan, breaking into his thoughts. He blinks, and sees the Director looking at him from beneath the fall of his lashes, the tips of his teeth peeking through beneath the line of his lips. “Shen-jiaoshou may sacrifice his marital prospects to serve his students, but I can’t toss mine to the wind to see to the duties of SID? I’m a busy man, Shen-jiaoshou. I don’t have time for romances.”

“Forgive me,” says Shen Wei, straightening. He reaches out and takes the teapot from Zhao Yunlan. Their fingers brush; Zhao Yunlan’s are hot, moist from the pot; they burn against Shen Wei’s skin, a stamp of heat that settles into his marrow just like the other. Safe inside him where he can keep the memory of these touches, with the dusty hope that there may be more. “I meant no critique.”

“Aiya, it was a joke. A joke. We’ll never get along if you take me too seriously.”

Shen Wei lifts his cup in a salute; Zhao Yunlan glances at him, momentarily taken aback, then echoes the gesture. “I hope, Zhao-chuzhang, that as we get better acquainted I will learn just how seriously to take you.” He drinks before Zhao Yunlan can respond, forcing him to do the same.

Zhao Yunlan puts down his cut and points a finger at Shen Wei. “You’re surprisingly sneaky, aren’t you. Now is that a wish, I wonder, or a threat?”

Shen Wei lowers his head to glance up over the rim of his glasses, and smiles. “Zhao-chuzhang will have to get to know me better in order to find out,” he murmurs, and pours out another cup of tea.

END